


Crack in time

by Builder



Series: Powers/No Powers Choose-Your-Own-Adventure [32]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Concussions, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Concussion Syndrome, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sickfic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:27:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24222790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: It’s loud.  Too loud to be a gunshot.  Not earth-shattering enough to be a bomb.  An IED, then.  A car 40 feet or so up the block rocks on its tires, and Bucky waits for it to flip onto its side, to roll and explode into a ball of hot, oily flames.   There’s no time to waste and watch, though.  It’s too close.  He’s too close. They’re too close.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: Powers/No Powers Choose-Your-Own-Adventure [32]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/760377
Comments: 5
Kudos: 53





	Crack in time

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr @builder051. This is a commission for an anonymous client.

They’re on their way to breakfast, having just finished at the gym, when Bucky’s world cracks out of place and time. Steve has both their gear bags slung over his broad shoulders, so Bucky’s poised to move quickly and lithely when the sound splits the air. 

It’s loud. Too loud to be a gunshot. Not earth-shattering enough to be a bomb. An IED, then. A car 40 feet or so up the block rocks on its tires, and Bucky waits for it to flip onto its side, to roll and explode into a ball of hot, oily flames. There’s no time to waste and watch, though. It’s too close. He’s too close. They’re too close. 

Bucky reaches wildly and catches Steve by one wrist. He drags him toward the pavement, away from the impending disaster. Steve’s never been in a situation like this before; Bucky can’t let him get hurt. He tries yanking Steve backward while propelling his own body forward, all while they both fall down, down…

The side of Bucky’s head hits something hard, then the back of his head hits something harder. His shoulder and elbow feel tweaked, but it barely rates compared to the pain further up. Bucky tries to blink, but his vision just blurs over, then slowly goes black.

“…Buck? Bucky?” Bucky feels his lashes flutter against his cheeks. His eyelids feel like lead, and the back of his skull seems riddled with it. His ears ring with the echo of the bomb. Bucky glances around, rolling his head over the uneven pavement. His vision swims, and a wave of nausea plays indelicately from his chin to his forehead and back again. 

“Wha…?” he breathes, all the air gone from his chest, knocked clean out when he hit the ground.

“Hey.” The tall blonde man stooping over him looks worried, but his face splits into an undeniable smile. “You in there?” 

A medic, Bucky thinks. He wants to ask to confirm, but he can’t string the words together. Or at least he doesn’t think he can without opening his mouth and being sick all down his front. 

“Who?” he manages to whisper, swallowing the bitter taste of bile on the back of his tongue.

“It’s me, Buck.” The man strokes the side of Bucky’s head, then closes his hand quickly. Bucky’s brain is nearly too slow to put together what he sees, but he still catches a glimpse of dark red staining his fingers. “It’s Steve.”

“St…?” But Steve’s not supposed to be here. He’s supposed to be home, safe and sound. Bucky’s the only one who’s supposed to be in harm’s way. 

He blinks again, and his head swims. Everything’s terribly blurry. Bucky tries to peer past Steve’s face and see the world around him, but he can’t pick his head up off the hard ground. The ground isn’t supposed to asphalt, though. Shouldn’t it be different? Sand? A prison cell? A hard-packed dirt floor?

He tries turning side to side, but the dizziness notches up so far that his stomach climbs up into his throat and begins to spill. 

Bucky sputters, trying to clear the chyme from the back of his mouth and recover his airway. 

“Hold on, Buck,” Steve says, panic lining the edge of his voice. He rolls Bucky’s body roughly onto his side, sliding a finger between his lips to clear whatever may be blocking his ability to breathe.

Bucky coughs, then his stomach contracts, his abdominal muscles squeezing painfully. A gush of vomit escapes his lips and pours down the front of his shirt. The warm stickiness registers for a moment, then Bucky’s body heaves again, and all he feels is the acute discomfort of his nausea.

“It’s ok,” Steve murmurs, wiping more sick from Bucky’s face. Then his sleeve swipes across Bucky’s forehead again. “It’s not bleeding that much.” But from what he can see of Steve’s wide eyes, the truth may be a different story. 

“Is this…?” Bucky stops to swallow another gag. “I mean… where’s the bomb?” He tries desperately to move his head again, doing his best to ignore the dizziness.

“It was just a car,” Steve says quietly. “Just a loud noise.”

“But… the fire…”

“There isn’t one.” Steve pulls his phone from his back pocket with one hand while keeping the other pressed against Bucky’s chest. “I think you’re pretty badly hurt, Buck. I think we need to go to the hospital.”

“Nuh,” Bucky tries to disagree, but another wave of vomit overtakes him. “See, you’re having a rough time. You’re really sick.”

“You’re…calling a medic?” Bucky tries putting two and two together, but fuzz still plays mightily around the edges of his brain.

“Sort of,” Steve offers him a kind smile. “An ambulance, Buck. You’re home, remember? You need to go to the hospital. I think you have a concussion.”

“A…concussion?”

“Yeah,” Steve sighs. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to catch you.”

“’S ok…”

Steve dials for the ambulance, and within minutes, Bucky begins to hear the sirens. The sound splits his already throbbing head. He groans in pain and reaches for Steve’s comforting arm.

The ambulance screeches up to the curb, and the paramedics bring out a clattering gurney. Steve’s voice quickly murmurs beside him, ostensibly telling what’s happened, as strong, gloved hands lift Bucky’s body. 

“He’s spooked pretty bad,” Steve explains. “PTSD. From the war, you know? I need to ride with him. To keep him calm.”

One of the paramedics give the affirmative, and Steve grasps Bucky’s hand as the other fastens a brace around Bucky’s neck. Even the light jostling is painful, and waves of empty nausea play around Bucky’s ears and nose. He feels as though he’s been breathing underwater, pressure building up in his sinuses as sick swirling continues in his stomach and throat.

The ambulance pulls away from the curb, and the paramedics barely have enough time to take Bucky’s blood pressure and hook him up to a pulse oximeter before they arrive at the hospital’s ambulance bay. 

“Bring him into eleven,” a tech says as soon as Bucky’s off the ambulance and into the ER proper. The paramedics take off at a clip, Steve’s shoes squeaking on the tile floor as he jogs alongside to keep up. 

“Hold on, Buck. You’re ok,” Steve says.

“N-no,” Bucky breathes. Nausea crystalizes in his chest. Sourness invades the back of his mouth again and begins to spill down the front of his already soaked shirt.

“Ok, alright. Just a second here…” Steve squeezes Bucky’s hand. 

The paramedics steer the gurney into the small ER room and transfer Bucky to the narrow bed. He groans as his head shifts across bed’s taught sheet. A nurse appears out of nowhere, practically ducking under Steve’s arm, and starts to wrap a tourniquet around his bicep. 

“No!” Bucky jerks his arm away, his fist sailing past her face in a very near miss.

“Here, let’s get you changed.” A tech bearing a hospital gown approaches from the other side, nodding to Steve for permission to get close. 

“You can try,” Steve says. “I’ll help.” He begins to peel Bucky’s shirt up over his abdomen, leaving cold, damp skin exposed.

Bucky moans in pained desperation, wondering why Steve’s suddenly jumping ship, suddenly helping the other side. 

“N-no,” he croaks again, turning his face toward Steve and whispering his distress around the edges of a harsh dry heave. 

“Here, let’s get you hooked up to the cardiac monitor,” the nurse continues, sticking freezing cold gelatinous dots to Bucky’s chest and applying clips attached to long wires. The heart monitor and pulse ox stop beeping as they’re finally plugged in properly, and Bucky’s head stops pounding long enough for him to drag in a harsh breath full of flecks of sour spit. It feels good to let his lungs fill. Less desperate, anyway. But it does nothing to assuage the severe ache in the back of his head and the dangerous turning of his stomach.

Bucky grits his teeth and waits for the rest. He yanks his arm out of the nurse’s grasp, feeling the beginning of the bite of the IV needle before he can quite get away, then pulls his knees upward and curls his chest over them. 

“No, Buck, don’t fight them,” Steve’s voice says, sounding concerned and almost exasperated. “They’re trying to help you.”

Bucky wants to believe him, but he can’t. Steve’s not really here. He can’t be. This is too much like before, when they had him, when they hurt him. He ducks his head and holds his temple in his palm. The space between his forefinger and thumb feels wet and gluey, so Bucky pauses and looks at it. Deep red blood stains his hand, running in rivulets down the creases of his palm. 

“Don’t worry.” The nurse wraps Bucky’s hand back into a fist and pulls it across his body so she can re-start on the IV. “We’ll get you nice and taped up, stop the bleeding.”

“Can I have your other arm?” the tech asks stupidly, holding the sleeve of the gown open. 

Bucky blinks. “Nuh.” He shakes his head, sending himself into a fit of dizziness that makes him want to bury his eyes in his knees.

He hears Steve start to explain, and he’s more than grateful not to have to open his mouth.

“Ok, I’ll be gentle,” the tech promises as she ties the gown behind Bucky’s neck and moves on to his pants. Bucky kicks until Steve leans over him and practically cradles his faces in his hands. 

“It’s alright, Buck,” he murmurs. “They’re just doing their jobs.”

Once the IV is placed, the nurse clicks a keyboard and summons a doctor, who puts orders for a CT scan and a dose of Haldol. Bucky’s still trembling, holding back the urges to fling his fist and stomach contents. 

It takes but a moment for the little syringe to show up in their ED room, and a flurry of chatter goes on over Bucky’s head among the nurse, tech, and presumably Steve. 

“Yeah, go ahead. It’ll take him out for a little while.” 

Steve smiles softly down at him, then squeezes Bucky’s hand. Something like ice invades the veins on his right arm, and sickness flows up from his stomach again. Then the lights above his eyes flicker and go out.

When he drifts back toward awareness, the first thing Bucky notices is the sound. A deep, rhythmic whirring invades his ears, dialing up the throbbing in the back of his head. He swallows, wincing at the sourness on his tongue, then tries prying open his eyes. 

Everything in his field of view is white, yet shadowy. It doesn’t seem right. Bucky wants to shake his head and try again, but it hurts too much. And something’s stabilizing his neck besides. He blinks, and the fractured picture starts to come together. He’s not seeing white. The ceiling is white. And it’s about an inch from the tip of his nose. 

Bucky grits his teeth and wraps his hand into a fist. Something hard pulls against his wrist, and he realizes he’s cuffed to the thin board he’s lying on inside the machine. He drags his knees up, and they hit the hard plastic with a jolt. 

“No,” he groans. “No, no…” Bucky thrashes side to side, unseating his head from the headrest and smacking his bandaged temple painfully against the side of the machine. His stomach roils, and it’s all he can do to keep from retching. 

“James?” a strange voice comes over a speaker somewhere above his head. “We’re going to pull you out now. Just take a breath. Calm down.”

“Fuck…” Bucky doesn’t think he’s ever felt less calm. He can’t stop violent tremors shooting out from his core and rocketing into his limbs. 

The table pulls slowly out of the giant magnet with a loud buzzing sound that makes Bucky feel as though his teeth are dissolving in his skull. As soon as it stops, he tries rolling to a sitting position, but nausea and his cuffed hand stop him from getting far. He groans and rolls halfway onto his side as he uses his entire bodyweight to struggle against the restraint.

A tall man in scrubs and another in a white coat run into the room. The nurse fumbles for a syringe and leans close, trying to get ahold of Bucky’s leg. “Get. Away,” Bucky growls, kicking outward.

“It’s just something to relax you,” the nurse says, raising his brows as he easily grasps Bucky’s knee. “It’s exactly what you had before.”

The needle pierces the skin of his thigh before the words are out of the nurse’s mouth. Bucky feels betrayed. More than that. He feels frightened. Where did Steve go? Was Steve even there at all? Or is he back in captivity, sick, in pain, and hallucinating? 

“No…” Bucky whispers, but the world is already starting to go black around him again. 

It’s again the sound that rouses him. A tugging. A pull of thread. Then small metal instruments clicking against each other. Bucky’s head aches, round the back and the front, though somebody’s gone and smudged Lidocaine across his forehead. He’s felt it’s tingling numbness enough times in the past to have the sensation imprinted in his memory, even when it’s foggy.

“What…?” Bucky whispers.

“It’s ok,” Steve’s voice replies. A soft hand cups Bucky’s cheek. “It’s just stitches.”

Bucky blinks up at him, his eyes watering in pain. 

“Hey.” Steve uses his thumb to wipe away the droplet of moisture running down the side of Bucky’s nose. “It’s ok.”

But it’s not. Steve’s doing something to him, stabbing at the numbed section of skin and making his head and his throat and his very bones ache.

“What… what’re you doing? Why’re you…hurting…?”

“Buck…” Steve shakes his head. A tear runs down from one of his eyes, making it past the corner of his mouth before he lets go of Bucky long enough to swipe it away. “I’m not. I—I’m trying to help you.”

“Blame me if you’re gonna take it out on somebody.” A slightly bloody blue glove waves in the edge of Bucky’s visual field, and a female doctor offers him a smile. “He’s not the one stitching you up. He’s been taking good care of you.”

“Oh,” Bucky murmurs, wondering how he could be so stupid. Or rather, how he could have let his brain play such tricks on him. His eyes go blurry again, but he blinks Steve back into focus and gives him a long look. “I…I’m sorry…”

“You’re pretty banged up. Pretty sick,” Steve says. “It’s ok.”

Bucky nods, accidentally unseating the doctor’s careful fingers. 

“Your scans came back clean, by the way,” she says in the moment of silence. “So we’ll just finish up your stitches and then get you to a room for observation overnight. Assuming everything’s alright, you can pick him up in the morning.” She inclines her head to Steve.

“Oh, no, I’m staying here with him,” Steve replies firmly. 

“Really?” Bucky asks.

“Yeah, of course.” He puts his knee up on Bucky’s bed and halfway sits at his side. He cups Bucky’s face again and strokes his stubbly cheek. “I’m not going anywhere. Not tonight. Not ever.”


End file.
